Family Secret
by V. Laike
Summary: It's all in the wrist.


Standard disclaimers apply. Not my characters, no money made. _Numb3rs_ belongs to Nick Falacci, Cheryl Heuton, and the various entities listed in the parade of logos.

Author's Notes can be found at the end of the piece.

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FAMILY SECRET

by

V. Laike

The enticing scent wafted through the room, hitting him as if he'd walked into a wave of the aroma when he stepped through the front door of the Craftsman home. Garlic, oregano, onions, peppers—someone was cooking Italian. Alan Eppes set his briefcase down by the armchair and made his way into the kitchen.

There he found his two sons, Don seated on a stool at the large center island, Charlie bent diligently over a simmering pot of tomato sauce. The counters and island were covered with containers of spices, diced onions, peppers, the remains of pressed garlic, and all manner of measuring utensils—cups, spoons, scoops, jiggers, even a beaker and a flask—as well as a notebook and pencil. "Charlie's cooking?" Alan asked in surprise.

"Charlie's _trying_ to cook," Don replied. The elder Eppes son appeared slightly weary sitting there with an empty salad plate in front of him. Beside him was a large bowl of plain spaghetti, and in front of him was a bottle of wine and a half-filled glass.

Alan sidled up beside Charlie and peered into the pot. "Decided to give Emeril a run for his money, did you?"

"Please, don't encourage him." Don held up his hands in protest. "If he yells 'Bam!' one more time, I can't be held responsible for the consequences."

Charlie carefully spooned a bit of the sauce from the pot onto a small amount of pasta and traded the small plate for Don's empty one. "Here, try this."

Don took a quick swallow of water from a second glass, twirled the proffered spaghetti around a fork, and took a bite. Considering carefully as he chewed, he shook his head and pronounced through a mouthful of pasta, "Nope, still not it."

Charlie scribbled something in the notebook, then eyed his brother from under dark brows. "Are you sure you don't need a spit bucket or something? We might be here a while." If the kitchen's current state of disarray was any indication, the brothers had been there quite some time already.

"I told you, this is my dinner."

"But not my dinner?" Alan asked, confused and a little disappointed. "And don't talk with your mouth full," he added in Don's direction.

Don rolled his eyes and swallowed. "Charlie's cooking dinner for Amita this weekend, and he wanted to fix Great-Great Grandma Mannino's spaghetti sauce."

Charlie wiped his hands on his apron and showed his father the stained, timeworn recipe.

Alan smiled fondly. "Oh, right. You mother used to make this when we had company. It was the special ingredient in her lasagna."

"Yeah, well, she didn't put any measurement notations on the recipe," Charlie said with exasperation. "And since cooking is essentially chemistry, the proportions between the ingredients are crucial to achieving the proper end result. I'm trying to determine with some degree of mathematical accuracy the exact proportion for each ingredient to achieve Great-Great Grandma Mannino's sauce."

"And I'm his guinea pig."

Charlie frowned at his brother.

"I mean 'taste tester'," Don corrected himself before taking a quick swallow of wine.

Alan raised his eyebrows in interest, narrowly avoiding an outright smirk. "Ooh. And how's that working?"

"My results have been less than optimal." Charlie sighed in frustration.

"And I'm getting full," Don added.

"Well, move over, Wolfgang Puck, and let me show you how it's done." Alan took off his suit coat and handed it to Don. Loosening his tie, he nudged Charlie aside and stepped up to the stove.

The boys looked at each other in bemusement. "What, you're going to make the secret sauce?" Don asked in disbelief.

"No offense, Dad," Charlie said, "but . . . uh . . . your lasagna isn't really . . . " Whatever Charlie was going to say died an unspoken death as Alan pulled a clean pot out of a cupboard.

"Apron," Alan ordered, donning the garment Charlie surrendered.

Don and Charlie watched as their father deftly tossed together tomatoes and tomato paste, water, assorted herbs and spices, onions, garlic, and oregano. A pinch of this and a dash of that. He even grabbed the bottle of wine and threw a splash into the brew. After a few minutes, Charlie was about ready to crawl out of his skin.

"Dad! You're not writing any of this down! You're not—you're not measuring _anything_. How can you—"

"Cooking is more than chemistry, my young genius," Alan said as he tapped the spoon against the rim of the pot. "It's art. It's talent. Anyone can follow a recipe. This sauce needs something extra. Now close your eyes, both of you."

"What?" Don's eyebrows shot up, and he almost laughed at his father's order.

"You heard me. Close your eyes. I promised your mother I'd keep the secret ingredient secret until it was time to pass it on to the next generation. I've included it in my will, but until then, it's a _secret_. And no peeking."

Don and Charlie looked at each other in disbelief. Their father crossed his arms, showing no apparent inclination to move until they had complied with his demand. The brothers each snorted in amusement but reluctantly closed their eyes.

"I work for the FBI. I _can_ keep a secret, you know," Don said indignantly, trying not to stoop to whining.

Charlie had no such compunction. "I've got top level NSA clearance." Yes, that was definitely a whine.

"Well, you don't have your mother's clearance," they heard Alan reply.

The younger Eppeses listened as a cupboard door opened and Alan rummaged for something. Then a drawer slid open and closed, and what sounded like one of the china cabinet doors opened and closed. Don smirked, suspecting that Alan was making more noise than necessary in order to throw his keenly curious sons off the trail. Charlie cocked his head, his furrowed brow displaying his frustration at being denied this crucial piece of data.

A seal popped, perhaps something that was vacuum packed or something that had not been opened in a long time. Don could not tell whether it was a jar, a tin, or a bottle, but whatever it was, it was quickly returned to its cupboard—or drawer or cabinet—before Alan told his sons they could open their eyes.

"All right, my boys, try this." Alan offered each of them a taste from the wooden spoon. Don's eyes lit up in delight, and his brother mirrored him with surprise. "That's . . . That's pretty darn close," Don declared.

"How did you do that? I can't . . ."

Alan placed the spoon on its rest on the stove. He removed the apron and retrieved his suit coat, giving his sons a smug smile. "It's all in wrist," was all he said before exiting to the dining room. Don and Charlie stared at one another as they listened to their father mount the steps leading upstairs.

"Did you get any idea how much he used of anything?" Don asked.

Charlie shook his head. "I couldn't even tell _what_ he was using, let alone how much." Charlie looked ruefully at the cupboards. "Which one do you think he opened?"

"I have no idea." Don pointed toward a cupboard to the right of the stove. "It sounded like that one but—"

"—that one has a squeak." Charlie nodded.

"Unless you oiled it."

"I didn't oil it."

They looked toward the door through which their father had exited.

Charlie gave his brother a pleading look. "Do you think we could dust for prints?"

_finis_

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A/N: This little ditty is the result of a challenge that was issued to me by my husband of all people. I thought that amidst all the angst, a little humor might be a good thing. 


End file.
